It's Elemental, My Dear Snape
by cathedral carver
Summary: Everything has been figured out, except how to live. Pay attention – there’s a test later.
1. That Which Does Not Kill Us

**Title:** It's Elemental, My Dear Snape  
**Author:** cathedral carver  
**Pairing:** Snape/Hermione  
**Spoilers:** AU after _Deathly Hallows_  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** Everything has been figured out, except how to live. Pay attention – there's a test later.

...

**1. Fire**

_"Neither fire nor wind, birth nor death can erase our good deeds."_

...

First there was pain.

The pain was devouring him, eating him alive.

If he _was_ actually alive. He wasn't quite sure.

Then there was fire.

The entire world, apparently, was on fire.

The world was on fire and he was burning in the centre of it.

The world was on fire and he was burning and everything was black. He thought it should be blistering red from the flames, but no. He moved his eyes from side to side. Nothing. Blackness. And fire licking at his limbs, filling him up, consuming and raging, roaring so loudly he could hear nothing else—

Where _was_ he?

He struggled to move but found he couldn't. Tried to speak but found his tongue compressed against the roof of his mouth, his lips parched and stuck together.

He forced his mind to calm itself, to rationalize despite the rising panic.

Heat and darkness and unendurable pain.

_Think_, Severus.

Oh.

He would have laughed, if it hadn't hurt so much.

He was in Hell.

_Of course. Where else?_

Then the fire became a snake and the snake rose and turned and attacked, again and again, devouring him until there was nothing but pain.

...

Time passed and it did not pass. The pain ebbed and flowed and expanded and contracted, but it was always present. His entire body, the entire world, was on fire.

He opened his mouth to scream but there was no sound because there was no air.

Well, I don't need air if I'm dead, he reasoned.

He just didn't think there would be so much _pain_ involved in being dead.

He wondered if it would always hurt like this.

But, of course it would.

It wouldn't be Hell if it didn't hurt.

...

Someone was moaning.

Oh.

It was him.

"Here." A voice! A soft, feminine voice, infinitely patient and gentle, floating somewhere above him. He tried to smile but then there was pain. So much pain. The voice was attached to hands, apparently, and the hands held something against his lips. A wet cloth, rough and cool. Drops of water along his lips, sliding into his mouth, down his scorched throat. Blessed relief for mere seconds before fire consumed him again.

"More," he said. He tried not to beg but he felt he would give his very soul for an endless fountain of water.

The irony was not lost on him.

The cloth returned and the wetness and the fleeting flash of mercy. He wanted to say _thank-you_ but instead he said:

"Are you…an angel?"

She made a sound like a sigh.

"Maybe." She sounded amused, or flattered. And sad. His angel sounded sad. "But I don't think so."

"I think so." He paused. The fire leapt and roared and threatened to overwhelm again. "Then I am…dead."

"No."

"I'm not?"

"No."

"How?"

"I…can't explain right now."

"Oh." He turned his head, felt a surge of heat and pain. "Not dead."

"No."

"Wish I was."

"Don't say that."

"Why?"

Do angels cry? he wondered. His angel sounded like she was.

"Sleep," she said.

He slept.

...

Someone was moaning.

Oh.

It was him.

He tried to lick his lips. Pointless. There wasn't enough water in the universe to hydrate him. The fire was ruthless, consuming, merciless.

"Where am I?" His voice sounded strange in his ears: raspy, unused, ailing.

"Here." Her voice, on the contrary, was sweet, young, concerned.

"Where's here?"

"With me."

"Who are you?"

"An angel, remember?" She was teasing him. He liked it. Again he wanted to smile. Again, so much pain.

"Did I say that?"

"Yes."

"I…don't remember."

"It's all right," she soothed. "You don't need to remember. You need to rest."

"I…I can't _see_." He sounded petulant and frightened and he hated himself for that. He closed his mouth, bit his tongue, hard.

"I…I've covered your eyes." She sounded contrite, like he might be angry with her.

"Why?"

"For…for your own protection. Please—"

Now he was terrified. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"I was worried there might be some…damage. I…treated them, but the venom—"

The word hitched in his chest. _Then the fire became a snake and the snake rose and turned and attacked, again and again_— But it had been a dream, hadn't it? He couldn't think.

"The what?"

"You don't remember." It wasn't a question.

He tried. He tried to…he could not. If he'd had enough moisture in his body he might have wept with the not knowing.

"I remember fire." He tried to not sound belligerent.

"Fire?"

"It's everywhere. It's everything."

"Oh." She understood. Of course she did. "You're very sick. You have a…a terrible fever. You—"

"What?"

The cloth was back. He sucked gratefully.

"You need to sleep."

He slept.

...

She was holding his hand.

"I'm dead. I know this."

"You're not dead."

"I should be."

"Why?"

He couldn't explain. He couldn't find the words to tell her what he'd done, the terrible things he'd done, the terrible things he'd said. How could he? What would she think of him? She was too good to understand. He simply shook his head.

Oh.

Pain.

"Doesn't matter anyway."

"What?"

"If I'm dead." Her hand tightened around his then and he held on, held on for his very life.

"It matters. It matters to—" She stopped.

"To?"

"It matters," she said again. His angel sounded teary again.

"Indeed," he said but his heart swelled at the emotion in her voice. He wasn't dead. He was _not_. Not yet, anyway. And it mattered, to someone.

If this truly was Hell, he could think of worse places to be.

...

He was wet.

He awoke drenched in moisture. His clothing was moulded to his body. He was shivering.

He felt her hands on him. She was undressing him, rolling him, removing his sheets and blankets, redressing him. All by hand. He was confused.

"Why don't you…"

She paused. "What?" She sounded nervous.

"Use magic."

"Can't."

"Why?"

"The usual…_rules_ don't apply here."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

_Fine, then._

"Where is the fire?"

"The fire…oh. It's gone…for now. Your fever broke."

"I'm…better," he said.

She didn't reply.

"I wish I could see."

"You will."

"When?"

She paused longer than she should have. Her hand touched his brow, smoothed his hair.

"Sleep," was all she said.

He slept.

...

He awoke to the sound of her voice. She was talking quietly, murmuring, but not to him. She sounded as if she was reading, or chanting.

"What are you doing?" he said into a darkness that didn't seem nearly as frightening as before.

She immediately moved closer. Hands on his face, his neck, shoulders. He tried to lift an arm, to find her hand with his but she pushed it back gently.

"Please lie still. You need to lie still, Professor—" She stopped short and he heard the catch in her throat, the panic in her voice.

_Professor?_

"Who are you?" he said quietly.

"I'm…trying to help. That's all. Please. _Please_."

That voice. He knew that voice. He _knew_ it. But if he was right, how…how could it be?

"Miss Granger?" he said tentatively, testing the name on his tongue, even though he knew the answer.

There was a long pause and he knew. He _knew_.

"Yes."

"Ah."

Angel. He'd called Hermione Granger an _angel_. And she'd _let_ him. He was suddenly very, very glad he couldn't see her face, or anything else for that matter.

There was a very long silence during which he tried, and failed, to picture the expression on her face at that moment.

"Professor?" She sounded _worried_.

"Why are you here?" he said finally.

"Because…I just am," she said simply and he let it go because it was a fact and he needed her and there appeared to be no one else around, and what else could he do?

Then the fire roared again and nothing would quench the flames.

And so he burned.

...

"It…hurts," he gasped and hated the sound of his voice, weak and trembling.

"I know. I know, sir," she said and he felt something cool press against his face. "It's the venom. I'm trying…I'm trying to—"

"_Do_ something," he demanded, using his best teacher voice. Things had changed, now that he knew her true identity. Angel indeed! His face burned from more than fire when he recalled addressing her that way. If she was here, then where were the others? Her moronic cronies? Where was Madam Pomfrey? Minerva?

Where _was_ everyone?

Where was _he_?

...

"Where am I?"

"You're here."

"Where is here?"

There was a small pause, as if she was thinking.

"Does it matter?"

He supposed it did not, at least not for the time being, because the answer didn't come and he didn't ask again. He simply slipped away.

...

Sometimes she read to him, for hours it seemed, and he didn't hear the words, never remembered them later, but the sound of her voice, low and cadenced, lulled him into a kind of semi-sleep, hovering tentatively somewhere between here and there, dream and reality, life and death.

...

"You need to drink this, Professor," she said. He felt a vial press against his lips.

"What is it?"

"It will help."

"What _is_ it?" he demanded.

"An…experiment."

"If you think I'm going to consume some _concoction_ thrown together by a mediocre potions student—" His voice caught in his throat and he started coughing. Pain flared.

"I'm…I'm doing the best I can—"

"It's not good enough, clearly," he hissed when the pain subsided and it felt good, it felt right to talk like that again. He was back in his classroom, he was teaching third-year potions, and the students trembled before him. It was before any of the other things had happened, before—

"Professor…_please_." He heard the tremour in her voice, heard the plea, felt her fear, her fear _for_ him, not _of_ him, and he trembled before it.

He drank.

He slept.

...

"Where am I?"

She sighed. He heard, for the first time, the rustling of her clothes, the creak of the floor as she stood and moved about. Still he could not see, but it didn't bother him as it had before. He felt safe. She was there and he felt safe.

He didn't bother thinking about the implications of that.

"Don't you mean, where are _we_?"

"I suppose. But, you're not really here, are you?"

"Is that what you think?" she sounded amused.

"What else am I meant to think?"

"Do you think you're dreaming?"

He considered this.

"Yes."

"Perhaps you are, then."

"And you're dreaming too?"

"Perhaps I am," and he heard the smile in her voice.

...

"I know what you did," she said.

"Pardon?"

"I know. Everyone knows now. You're no longer a…villain."

The word made him laugh. He choked it back.

"Indeed."

"You should be very proud of yourself."

This time he couldn't hold the laughter back. It sounded like a cough. It made his lungs hurt.

"_Proud_."

"Yes. Don't you realize what you did?"

"I know precisely what I did."

"You've done so much good, you don't know, you don't _know_—" She had to stop because she was crying, he surmised. She was leaning over him, performing the small but necessary duties she had been performing for how long now, tucking in his sheet, smoothing his hair, tending his wounds and he felt the suspect drops of water fall into his face, warm and … salty, he realized as one slipped into his mouth.

He felt her small, cool hands on his face once more. Blessed relief. He felt her mouth close to his ear, felt her breath on his cheek.

"You're a hero, Professor."

He turned his head a fraction of an inch, felt his mouth brush along her jaw before she pulled back as if burned.

"You're a liar, Miss Granger."

...

Someone was moaning.

It was him.

Someone was holding his hand.

It was her.

"I'm here, I'm here," she whispered over and over, until it was all he could hear and it was everything, it was bigger than the fire.

...

"Where is my wand?" he asked suddenly. He could sense her sudden stillness.

"Your what?"

"My wand. You heard me."

"There are no wands here."

"What do you mean?"

"There is no magic here." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "The usual rules don't apply here."

"Where is _here_?"

...

"I'm going to remove the blindfold," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's time."

He nodded tersely, but didn't trust himself to speak.

"Your eyes…they'll be very sensitive to the light. I've made it as dim as possible in here, but still…"

"I understand." _Just get it over with already._

He felt her hands slide along the sides of his face, move behind his head. He felt them fumble with the tie, felt them tremble with trepidation, felt the blindfold slip away, felt cool air against his eyes.

He heard her move away, as if out of his reach should he try to grab for her.

He was scared.

Slowly, very slowly, he let his eyelids relax, felt them flutter, let them open. The world began to form, to take shape. The room was very small and very dark. A candle flickered on a desk. There were books, a bag, a writing pad. A single window, covered. He let his eyes wander.

The room had no door.

Hermione moved closer. She reached the edge of the bed, studied his face intently. She didn't speak.

"I can…see," he said.

She was smiling.

"I can see you," he said, reaching out a hand. She took it.

She wept.

...

The fire returned.

"We can no longer stay here," she said as he sucked on the cloth.

"Why?"

"Because…" her voice trembled. She sounded close to tears. "It's not working."

"Where are we going?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

_Of course._

...

Someone was shouting.

Oh. It was him.

The Dark Lord was there—

Pain.

"My Lord…My Lord…Forgive me…"

"Stop," she said. "Stop, stop, stop…"

He opened his eyes. She was beside him, holding his hands. Her eyes were huge in the candlelight.

"He…_Voldemort_ is dead."

_Why couldn't he remember?_

"He is?"

"Yes."

"So I'm…dreaming."

"I wouldn't say that."

"You're here."

"Yes."

He slept.

...

"Professor?"

"Yes."

"It's time."

"Where are we going?" He watched her frantic but controlled movements as she hurried about the small, dark room. She was shoving objects in a bag, pulling on a coat, tying shoelaces.

"Away," she said. Her evasiveness was irritating him.

"_Where_?"

For the first time in a long time he felt…calm. The fire had subsided and he had slept without dreams. He was weak, but he felt…stronger. The worst, he felt, had passed. He had told her this and thought she'd be pleased. On the contrary, she had begun her frenzied packing and pacing.

"Miss Granger," he said quietly.

"I need…you need to be away from here. It's not working here. I'm not…I'm not doing it right here. I need…there are other things I need to find get you well."

"I am well."

"No," she said and her voice broke. "You're not. But I swear…I swear, you will be."

She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and approached him.

"I need you to stand."

"I don't know if I—"

"I'll help you."

"It would help if you told me what was going on," he said, but this she ignored.

She put her hands on his shoulders, helped him sit. He felt dizziness wash over him. He put his head down, closed his eyes, waited for the nausea to pass. When it did she pulled him upright. The sensation was overwhelming and he clung to her.

"I'm going to hurt you," he said as he leaned heavily on her.

"No, you won't."

He felt her arms move around him. He closed his eyes.

"Are we apparating?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"No," she said. "The usual rules—"

"—don't apply here," he finished with a small smile. He looked down at her.

She looked up.

"How, then?"

"There are other ways to travel."

_Of course._

"Are you ready?"

He looked into her face, into her eyes and felt himself nodding.

"Take my hand."

He did.

...

_tbc_


	2. And It Shall Teach Thee

**Title:** It's Elemental, My Dear Snape  
**Author:** cathedral carver  
**Pairing:** Snape/Hermione  
**Spoilers:** AU after _Deathly Hallows_  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** Everything has been figured out, except how to live. Pay attention – there's a test later.

...

**2. Earth**

"_On earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it."_

_...  
_

They had been walking for some time. They were in a woods, he knew that much, following a roughly hewn path, but how they'd arrived there and where they were going remained as much a mystery as what Miss Granger was doing with him in the first place. It was dark and cool, and when Snape looked up, he saw glimpses of white-blue sky; saw the branches of trees that were grey and bare.

Hermione walked ahead of him, her strides sure, her steps nimble amongst the thick foliage and twisted tree roots underfoot. Every now and then she would stop suddenly, crouch down, study the leaves of a plant, the berries of a bush. Sometimes she would pluck samples deftly and place them in the cloth bag she carried across her chest; sometimes she would stand and sigh, shake her head, then glance behind at her and study Snape with an anxious expression.

"How do you feel, sir?"

"I…I need to rest," he said, hating to admit the fatigue in his legs, the ache in his chest. She nodded.

"Of course. I'm sorry."

They were in a small clearing. It was very still and quiet. Snape couldn't hear birds or rustling. He couldn't hear the wind. He could only hear his breath as it whistled in and out of his throat. He could hear his treacherous heart pounding, pumping poison through his veins. He seated himself at the base of a large tree, stretched his legs in front of him. He felt chilled, despite the hours of exercise. He pulled his heavy cloak about him, watched Hermione hover, pale and fidgety.

"How much longer?"

"I'm not sure." She tilted her head back, gazed up through the tree branches.

"Where are we going?"

She didn't reply.

She wandered about the clearing, kneeling here and there to pull up a handful of leaves or a root, sniff at them judiciously, then throw some away while placing others in her bag.

"Calendula," he heard her mutter. "Plantain, Friars Balsam…_Wood Betony_. Blood purifier…excellent. Skin disease…infection? No…_no_…"

She wiped her dirt-stained fingers on the sides of her jeans absent-mindedly as her eyes swept the forest floor. The toe of one trainer dug in the earth for some mysterious root or seed. She backed into the centre of the clearing and looked up, up. Still Snape watched her, studied the curve of her throat above her sweater, the tumble of tangled hair down her back.

She felt his gaze on her. She looked at him, blinked slowly in the gloom.

"What I need," she said eventually, as if he'd asked, and tilting her head back again, "is up there." Snape followed her gaze. He saw immediately what she was looking at: a single cluster of berries dangling near the end of a rather spindly looking branch at least 20 feet above them.

_Rubercuratio racemus._

"Surely you jest," he said, a small smirk on his face. When she didn't reply his eyes snapped to her face and he saw immediately that she did not. The grim set of her mouth, the determined stance: she meant to get those berries if it was the last thing she did. He found himself having a harder time breathing than usual, even. "I take it you still do not have your wand on your person?"

She shook her head, not looking at him.

"And I do not have mine," he said.

"No," she said. "No wands. No magic."

She wiped the palms of her hands on the front of her jeans. He saw her swallow.

"I mean really," she began, moving closer to the base of the tree. "How difficult can it be? I spent half my childhood climbing trees. I used to take my favourite books with me and spend _hours_ reading, perched on a branch."

"Miss Granger," he began, speaking above the hot, hard feeling in his throat. "As enchanting as that particular memory sounds, I'm afraid I cannot allow you to _shimmy_ up a tree in the middle of nowhere while I sit back and watch you possibly fall to your death."

"How do you plan to stop me?" she inquired politely as she stepped even closer to the trunk and assessed her path. Right hand there, right foot there, slightly longer stretch _there_, but still…manageable.

How, indeed.

"Well," she said, shifting her bag around so it rested against her lower back, "wish me luck."

"Miss Granger—"

"Professor Snape—"

"—what do you propose I do if you fall?" His throat felt as though it was full of glass.

"Nothing. Because, I won't," she said, reaching up to grasp the first branch above her head. She gave him one last long look.

"I must _insist_—" Snape's thudded painfully. He felt he might be sick. He moved to stand, but—

—it was too late. She was pulling herself nimbly up, up, finding footholds and finger holds, shifting her body weight this way and that, moving steadily higher and higher, until it made him slightly dizzy to watch. He closed his eyes briefly — terrified though he was to take his eyes off her for even a second — and sank back against the trunk, willing his racing heart to calm.

_What was she _doing_?_

"Almost there," he heard her say and her voice sounded as if it was far, far away. He could hear small grunts of exertion; the branches were further apart, the knotholes smaller and less accessible now. Finally, finally, she reached the branch holding the berries. He saw her face turn down towards him, a wide grin stretched across it.

"Did it!" she exclaimed.

"Not quite!" he called back, exasperation clear in his voice.

She eased herself over the last branch, straddled it, clenched it with her thighs and leaned forward to grasp it between her hands. Her face was taut with concentration, her eyes focused on the berries before her. Snape found he was holding his breath, silently willing her safety, while marveling at her bravery.

_All this…for _me_?_

No, he would think about the implications of _that_ later.

She inched along, her pace excruciating. Snape found his fingers digging into the earth beneath him — compulsive, panicky — as she moved closer, one hand reaching out to pluck, _closer_—

He saw it happening before she did, apparently, because the cry of surprise and fear he heard echo about the clearing issued from _his_ mouth, not hers, as she suddenly slipped sideways, eyes wide with shock, hair and bag flying up—

"Granger!" he exclaimed. He jumped to his feet before he realized he'd moved at all and stood beneath her. He saw her fingers slip, her legs scrabble, saw the unmistakable panic in her eyes. She was going to fall. She was going to fall _she was going to fall_ and he was going to stand there like an idiot and watch her break her bloody neck.

He held out his hands. They were shaking. He would catch her. He would catch her with his non-magical shaking hands if it was the last thing he ever—

She caught herself, instead. Somehow, _somehow_, she managed to steady herself, stop the inevitable trajectory of her fall — Snape would never figure out how, exactly, if he spent the remainder of his days pondering—

She grabbed the berries, started moving backwards as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And she was laughing. The insufferable girl was _laughing_. He wondered, briefly, if she was hysterical. "No magic!" he heard her say between giggles. "No magic. Just good old fashioned tree climbing prowess. All those hours of practice finally paid off."

He staggered back, back, until he found his safe and secure trunk once more. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms tightly around his chest as if to keep himself from shattering into a million pieces. He heard her descending, heard the scrape of shoes and clothing against bark, heard her light landing in the dirt before him. When he dared open his eyes again she was standing right in front of him, whole and happy and quite obviously delighted with herself.

_Bloody wench. Almost gave me a heart attack and she doesn't even _care_._

"Got them!" she crowed, holding the cluster of berries in her hand. He glared at her, at them, back at her.

"Well," he managed at last, when he could speak, when he could _breathe_. "I can see why you're in Gryffindor."

...

They came upon the hut not an hour later.

It was small — it resembled a child's playhouse — fashioned of, as far as he could tell, mud and wood and straw, with a hole in the roof, one square window and a small door covered with a drape. It sat in the midst of another clearing, surrounded by trees and low brush. Snape stood and stared and listened; he felt sure he could hear the gurgle and splash of running water close by.

"What do you think?" she asked as they approached. "I think it will do, don't you?"

For what she did not say.

It was dark and cool inside and even smaller than it first appeared. There was room only for the two of them to sit comfortably, perhaps lay down side by side if needed, plus Hermione's belongings, which she quickly began to unpack and sort out. In the very centre of the room was a circle of stones: a rough fire pit, Snape surmised. He sat wearily. He felt he could sleep for days.

"You're exhausted," she said as she methodically arranged her leaves and herbs, berries, small bowls, a pestle, a pack of Muggle matches, several worn books.

"You've been dragging me haphazardly through the _woods_," he said rather petulantly. "You've been testing the mettle of my heart by attempting to frighten me very nearly to death with your _recklessness_—"

"You were worried I'd get hurt?" she teased as she dropped a handful of leaves into the bowl. "I didn't know you cared, sir."

He felt the slow heat of her words — and their implication — move up his body, towards his face. He was grateful for the hut's dimness.

"Well, If you expire, how should I ever get home?" was all he said.

...

He did sleep for days, it seemed, and each time he opened his eyes for a moment she was either gone — a fire burning, always, with a small cauldron bubbling merrily atop — or hunched over a bowl, grinding roots, tearing leaves into tiny pieces, slicing and pounding, then brewing and stirring. She spent hours away from the hut, and returned with her cloth bag full to bursting with any variety of plants, herbs and berries and once, it appeared, a giant clod of _dirt_.

"I'm placing great store in the _Rubercuratio racemus,_" she said. "But it takes several weeks to fully prepare. In the meantime, I have lots of other ideas, sir, so don't worry."

The air between them became densely clotted with a bizarre variety of smells ranging from sweet to putrescent; steam of an assortment of colours and viscosity swirled and billowed and slowly filtered from the small hole in the roof.

Snape's dreams were filled with snakes and smoke, undulating and murky.

"Lie still," she said, kneeling at his side one morning.

"What is it?" His voice sounded very far away. He lay flat on his back, his head to the side. He could feel a great throbbing along the side of his neck; not quite the fire of before, but his breaths were short and shallow and Granger's face was hazy, distorted as she worked above him.

"A poultice," she said as she gently packed the wet mass onto the side of his neck, "fashioned of Calendula and plantain."

"Ah," he said. He concentrated on the infinitely gentle sensation of her fingers as they pressed and sculpted, smoothing the paste along his skin. "_Calendula officinalis. _Above all a remedy for the skin, providing effective treatment for cuts, scrapes and wounds; for red and inflamed skin, including burns." He comprehended that he was babbling and bit his tongue, literally. He preferred the sound of her voice, anyway.

"Yes. And the plantain is a healer of wounds and injuries as well as a remedy for most…poisons," she paused, drew a shaky breath. "It's also a 'body purifier' and cleans the system of heat, congestion as well as all toxic elements. In addition, it's effectual in treating ailments such as fevers, infections and skin diseases."

He felt himself drifting on the waves of her voice, her knowledge, her skill. Her fingers moved and he suddenly wondered what they might feel like on other parts of his body _not_ his neck.

He wondered, not for the first time, if she was bewitching him.

"You…should seriously consider the profession of Healer in your future, Granger," he murmured as she smoothed his hair back from the side of his face gently, gently. "You have a marvelous bedside manner."

...

His dreams were vivid, nightmarish, a scattershot of images and sounds that made little sense when he awoke.

"You rescued me," he said suddenly one night. "You…you found me…in another hut? Yes. You…_you_…"

She didn't answer him.

"I…saw it. I _remember_."

"It was a dream," she said, but her voice sounded strained, edgy. "The Calendula is known to cause lucid dreaming. You know that."

She moved to the fire, stirred whatever she was currently brewing, avoided his gaze. He wanted to question her, he wanted to force her to talk, but somehow, the set of her mouth, her hooded eyes, suggested further conversation was pointless.

"This was no dream, Granger," he muttered under his breath, but not quite.

But whether she heard him or not, he did not know.

...

Another morning, another poultice that smelled of wet earth and pine needles.

"Benzoin," she said as her fingers moved along his neck with a swirling motion that was, he was forced to admit, more than slightly _erotic_. She leaned close to admire her work and he felt her breath ripple across his cheek. "It helps heal cuts and chapped, inflamed and irritated skin. It is anti-inflammatory, antiseptic and antioxidant, and also an effective natural preservative, preventing the oxidation of the other ingredients."

He heard the soothing, reassuring tone of her voice but found, ultimately, that he didn't give a damn what she was _saying_; he only cared how he _felt_ and he felt _heavenly_.

And she said there was no magic here.

"Agrimony," she said, pouring the steaming yellow liquid into a small cup. "For purifying the blood and easing winter colds."

"It's not winter," he said, sipping at it.

She glanced out the small window, at the leaden sky beyond.

"It will be."

...

Day after day, potion after potion, a cool hand to his forehead, eyes peering keenly into his face.

Every time he drank, every time he drifted off, always the same question, always the same intensity:

"How do you feel?"

_How do you _feel_?_

_...  
_

"I remember the first time you set foot in my classroom," he murmured drowsily as the Great Mullein ('_Contains Coumarin and Hesperidin, both with excellent analgesic and anti-inflammatory qualities! Also a cardio-depressant and a sedative, so don't be surprised if you feel woozy.'_) flooded his system. He lay on his side with his head on his folded cloak and watched her poke at the fire.

"I do, too," she smiled. She looked tired, he realized. Exhausted.

"You were so small," he babbled. "All of you were so _tiny_. And you…you had band aids…on your knees. Pink. Hideous, bright _pink_."

"I'd fallen running on the way to _your_ class. I was…_so_ excited. And so clumsy."

"You knew all the answers to my questions. I was…floored, to say the least."

"I…wanted to impress you," she said quietly. "But I was so scared I was shaking."

"You didn't appear scared," he said. Steam curled up from the small cauldron, twining around her hands, her face, her _hair_. He wanted to touch it. "You've…never seemed scared…of anything."

She looked at him then and even in the flickering firelight he could see fear reflected clearly in her wide eyes. "I get scared."

She reached out one trembling hand towards his face and stopped just short of his cheek.

"I get _terrified_."

...

And another day:

She staggered in from her hunt and immediately began chopping and boiling. He sat propped against the wall, still and broken as a marionette.

He studied her as she worked, taking in her dirt-smeared cheeks, the purple shadows beneath her eyes, the slight shake of her hands.

"You're not sleeping," he commented. "Or eating, far as I've seen."

"You don't see everything," she said rather shortly, and held a cup out to him. "An infusion Butterfly Weed — _Asclepias tuberosa_ —antispasmodic, carminative, mildly cathartic, diaphoretic, diuretic, expectorant, tonic and vasodilator."

He took it, sniffed it, raised an eyebrow.

"I bet you say that to all the boys," he said drily.

...

When he awoke, much later it seemed, she was still working, peering into the cauldron intently. He watched her.

"Miss Granger—" he spoke into the silence.

"You realize," she said matter-of-factly without looking directly at him, "you don't _have_ to go on calling me Miss Granger."

The world stopped for a moment.

"Indeed," he said when he could speak.

"No," she said quickly, as if realizing her impertinence. "I mean, it does seem a bit odd, don't you think, considering the circumstances."

"Would I knew what the circumstances are, precisely," he replied.

She merely nodded and seemed ready to drop the subject entirely. Her face was very flushed, he noticed, and she was biting the inside of one cheek.

"But," he drawled, not looking at her, "I could perhaps, attempt maybe, to refer to you by your…given name…if I happen to remember."

He watched the corners of her lips twitch.

"Me, too," she said. "_Severus_."

...

He awoke with a start, awash in panic, groping in the dark.

_A snake, a gigantic snake, poised and ready to strike—_

Then she was there, wiping his face with a wet flannel and murmuring soothing words, nonsense words.

"Nightmare?" she said. He was trembling, close to panting. He nodded. She eased him down, meaning to put his head on his cloak, but somehow he ended up on her lap, his head cradled on her thighs. He made to move, but she held him tight by the shoulders.

"It's all right," she said. "Just…go to sleep."

"A nightmare…" he agreed, one hand curling around her jean-clad knee. She felt wonderfully solid and warm and soft all at once. He was just starting to drowse when he heard her speak again, as if to herself.

"_Come to me in my dreams, and then by day I shall be well again_," she murmured in the darkness.

"What did you say?" he asked sharply.

She started. "N-nothing. Just a line from a poem I was thinking about."

"Matthew Arnold," he said.

"Yes."

"_Why_—"

"Go to sleep," she said. "Go to sleep, _go to sleep_."

...

"The _Rubercuratio racemus_ will be ready tomorrow," she said one evening as he lay down, his head cushioned on his cloak. He nodded.

"And then?"

"Pardon?"

"After…_that_, what happens?"

She took a breath.

"Hopefully…I hope…you'll get well," she said simply. She was sitting very close to him. A lock of unruly hair had fallen across her face. He reached out and smoothed it behind her ear.

He wanted to kiss her.

How completely odd.

And yet, how completely natural.

...

And a few hours later:

He heard her startled exclamation from where she stood in the doorway and he moved as if to jump up.

"What is it?" he asked from the floor. He felt disoriented, sore and scattered, his heart thumping hard.

But then she turned to him and it all became clear: the light of the moon beyond her caught her face at such an angle and he could see her cheekbones, the curve of her cheek, the jut of her chin, and her face was full of such joy, such unfettered joy, that his heart clenched in pain.

_I knew a woman, lovely in her bones—_

"It's snowing," she said turning away again. "Oh, it's so beautiful! Look. Look!" She moved away from the doorway so he, too, could see.

Snow was falling, thick and white, slowly, slowly. The ground was already covered in a thin layer of flakes.

"Beautiful," he said, looking at her.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said as she prodded the fire. "Go back to sleep."

"…and you?" he murmured, watching the light flicker along the hut's walls, illuminating their scant belongings, lick up her arm, along her face, turning her hair and blazing shade of amber.

"Soon," she said.

He wanted to keep watching her, but his eyes fluttered and closed, only to startle open at the sound of breaking twigs, pounding in her bowl, scraping with the pestle.

"Stop fidgeting!" he snapped, sounding more irritated than he felt. She dropped the pestle, sat back on her knees, looked at him soundlessly. "I wish you'd just…lie down."

"All right," she said, expelling a long breath. She started settling down across from him, on the other side of the room. He watched her, wondered if he should speak.

"I wish…"

"What?"

"I wish you'd…" He kept his eyes closed and let out the breath he'd been holding. "…lie down with _me_."

She glanced at him

"You…you wouldn't mind?" she said, her voice small and unsure.

_Mind?_

"No."

The firelight caught a gleam in her eyes but she quickly looked down and stoked the embers once more. Then she carefully moved across the space between them and eased her body in behind his, her back against the wall of the hut. His own body jumped in reaction to the proximity of hers; she carefully wrapped one arm around him and he felt her head press against the back of his head, her nose in his hair. His hand curled into the hard, cool dirt of the earth floor; he felt the dirt under his nails, caked into the pores of his skin. He felt the weight of her arm, felt the soft, warm breath from her mouth against his neck.

"Good night, Hermione."

He closed his eyes.

And still the snow fell.

...

_tbc_


	3. Let The Rain Kiss You

**Title:** It's Elemental, My Dear Snape  
**Author:** cathedral carver  
**Pairing:** Snape/Hermione  
**Spoilers:** AU after _Deathly Hallows_  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** Everything has been figured out, except how to live. Pay attention – there's a test later.

...

**3. Water**

"_If there is magic on this planet it is contained in water."_

_...  
_

The world changed overnight.

Even through half-opened eyes he could see the banks and drifts of snow through the thin curtain covering the door. Everything was buried under endless mounds of white.

"Here," she said, leaning close in the early morning light. "Drink."

A cup was pressed against his mouth. He raised his head, curled his cold fingers around her slender wrist and drank.

_Rubercuratio racemus._

Warm and sweetly healing, and imbued, it seemed to him, with the very essence of _her_ and her immeasurable bravery (_he saw her fingers slip, her legs scrabble, saw the unmistakable panic in her eyes. She was going to _fall_—_) it slid over his tongue, down his throat, along his limbs to the very tips of his fingers and toes. It swelled and swam through his veins, eradicating every last vestige of poison.

He wanted to say something, _anything_, but all his words seemed wretchedly insufficient. He wanted to weep at the hideous inadequacy of his language.

Instead, he closed his eyes and slept.

...

When he awoke again she was in a flurry of movement, bustling here and there, up and down; she was, he realized, packing her bag. She threw handfuls of dirt over the fire, tamped it down with her trainer.

"Come," she said at last, extending a hand. He looked up.

"What?"

She smiled.

"You need some sunlight on your pale little face."

He hid his smirk.

And they were on the move again.

Snape squinted violently, held an arm up over his eyes. He could hear Hermione's breathless little laughs as they emerged from their hut (_their_ hut!) and viewed the new world. Her hands grasped his arm and pulled it gently down.

She couldn't help laughing.

"Look! Look at it all. _Oh_—"

He opened his eyes.

"Oh—" He breathed. He'd never seen anything like it in all his life, not even in childhood, where the best and happiest memories were meant to reside. Everything was white, whiter than he'd ever seen, and glistening with the brilliance of tiny diamonds. Oh, so beautiful! He felt like crying. Their breath puffed around their mouths, small, translucent clouds. He didn't feel cold, though he knew he should. Impulsively she hugged him, quick, tight, and before he could react, she started walking ahead.

Snow lay thick and heavy on the tree branches overhead. Everything was quiet and still; there was no sound but their breaths and steady steps. Snape pulled his cloak around him tightly and followed her through a landscape of foreign hills and valleys. Snow crunched beneath their shoes. The sky was brilliantly clear, not a cloud in sight. The sun was shining, warming his head, his shoulders.

When she wasn't looking, he grinned, teeth and all.

It felt _glorious_.

...

"When do we return to the hut?" he asked sometime later. While not tired, exactly, he was unused to the exertion. He could feel the strain in his legs and his breathing was laboured. They were in yet another clearing. The sun was shining. In front of them was a narrow stream, clear and gently burbling.

"We don't," she said, stopping.

"We don't?"

"No. It's no longer needed," she said simply.

_Ah_.

"There," she said, pointing. "Sit and rest for a moment."

He leaned back against a tree, his cloak over his shoulders and beneath him, protecting him from the layer of snow. He lifted his face to the sunshine. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he felt like this.

He'd never felt like this.

Hermione pulled a handful of roots from her bag, shook the dirt off them.

"I need to wash these," she said. He opened his eyes and watched as she removed her shoes, then her socks, and, grinning at him and biting her lip, walked barefoot in the snow to the edge of the stream. She rolled her jeans legs up until they were almost at her knees.

"Hermione," he said, shifting. "I'm sure you don't need to go _right into the_—"

She waded into the water.

Snape watched as she stepped gingerly onto the pebbles beneath her feet. Her head was down in concentration and her hair fell across her face, tangled, wild. The stream was narrow and not very deep; in the centre it barely reached the middle of her calf. She stopped there and looked into the distance, towards the dark green stand of trees there, still and silent and slightly foreboding.

Snape couldn't take his eyes off her.

_I knew a woman, lovely in her bones—_

And he looked at the stream, and the girl standing there, and the bright, clear image was burned forever into his memory: Hermione Granger wading into the icy, flowing water, pant legs rolled, snow gleaming all around her, sun shimmering on her hair; and her face turned towards him, then, and she smiled, brilliant, breathtaking. And he blinked and thought,

_I want to stay here._

_I want to stay here _forever_._

_...  
_

When she emerged she built a fire, using bark and twigs from the bag, lighting it with her matches. She placed the roots and water in the small cauldron and set it to boil. When it was ready she dipped the cup in and handed it to him.

"Wood betony," she said. "Blood tonic, cardiac for anemia and heart troubles and to treat stomach aches."

"My stomach feels fine," he teased. She cocked an eyebrow.

"Don't argue with your healer," she said and turned away to tend the fire. He sniffed it, grimaced, put the cup down beside him and watched her.

It became apparent rather quickly that she couldn't stop shivering, even when the fire was roaring and she was rubbing her hands above it.

"Come here," he said suddenly and she looked at him quizzically. She didn't move. "Just…_come_," he said, impatient and rather embarrassed now that he'd started it.

She stood and came before him, arms dangling loosely at her sides. He grasped one hand (_so cold_), pulled her down to him. She knelt, still frowning.

"What is it?"

"Come _here_, you stubborn girl," he said irritably, and kept pulling. She ended up beside him, awkward, close beneath his arm, back against the tree.

"Oh," she breathed, in surprise. Then, again, "_Oh_," in understanding.

"Yes, _oh_," he said. "You're obviously freezing. I'm trying to help."

He wrapped both arms around her then, pulling his heavy cloak tightly over the two of them. He could feel Hermione's body trembling against his and held her tighter. They sat like that for several minutes, watching the fire dance and flicker in front of them. Then she turned slightly and he felt her hands moving beneath his cloak, tentative against his clothing. When her hand came in contact with his hand she paused, as if considering. Then she slid her hand into his, curled her fingers around his, held on.

_Ah_.

Impulsively he leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"What was that for?" she teased, looking up into his carefully impassive face.

"Wood betony is also an aphrodisiac," he said, shocked at his audacity and not quite looking at her. "Or, didn't you know?"

"Oh. Is _that_ what this is, then?" Her voice was still teasing but there was something else, something graver, just beneath.

"No," he said, and his voice sounded faraway in his ears. "I didn't drink any."

He leaned down then, into her still upturned face. His lips brushed against hers, light as falling snowflakes. She smiled against his mouth, gently. Her hands moved up (_not quite so cold_), and found his neck. She pressed her mouth to his cheekbones, his eyelids, his jawline. He closed his eyes, felt her lips moving against his face. He thought he might faint, he might die, he might _explode_. His mouth found hers again. She tasted like wild mint. He swallowed, audibly, and she laughed and kissed him there, where his throat moved.

"The usual rules…don't apply here," he stated, remembering. _Affirming_.

"They don't," she said, shaking her head and smiling, and then kissed him hard, _harder_ under the snow, amongst the snow.

...

"We're staying…here?" he said later as she added bark to the fire. It was dark. The stars were out. So many stars.

"Yes," she said. "Is that all right?"

He frowned.

"What?" she said. "Didn't you ever go camping when you were little?"

"No," he said, unwilling to elaborate.

"Oh, we went every summer," she said cheerfully. "I used to chop the firewood. That was my _job_. I was horrible, but my Dad let me do it, anyway. The axe would bang against my shins. Horrible cuts and bruises, every year. Battle wounds, he used to call them."

"We didn't…do things like that when I was a child."

Something in his voice made her look at him. Even in the firelight and the moonlight his face was drawn, pinched.

"I had…battle wounds of a different sort," he said flatly, staring at the flames.

She stopped then, realizing, finally and fully, the unbearable weight of his words.

And though he was crying, too, when she pressed her cold lips and cheek against his lips and cheek, he felt only the warm sweet wetness of _her_ tears.

"Here," she said in the days that followed, handing him cup after cup after cup. "Drink."

He peered into it. Clear liquid. He took a tentative sip. Cold. Flavourless.

"It tastes like…water."

"It _is_ water." She grinned.

"Just…water?"

"Yes. Just…water."

He looked into her eyes, their liquid brown depths. _So beautiful_, he thought.

"This is a good sign," he said as he drank. He realized, just then how very thirsty he was.

"It's a very good sign," she agreed. She couldn't stop smiling.

He smiled back.

It was becoming easier.

He kept drinking.

...

The clearing became their new home. She seemed content to stay there and so, he too, became content.

"What is that?" she said one afternoon, pointing. They were sitting together, quite contentedly, by the tree. He followed the line of her finger. A single flower, by his boot, poking its bright yellow head above the snow drifts.

"Is that…Wood Sorel?"

"_Oxalis stricta_," he said. "Heart-shaped cloverlike leaflets."

"Yes." She said.

He leaned forward, plucked it impulsively, handed it to her.

"Here," he said.

_Who are you and what have you done with Severus Snape?_

She accepted without a word and stared down at it. When she looked up at him, her smile was tremulous, her eyes wet with tears.

His heart lurched.

Oh, he hadn't expected _that_.

He hadn't expected to give her the flower.

He hadn't expected her to take it.

He hadn't expected her to cry.

Above all, he hadn't expected to fall in love with her.

He slept beneath the stars.

He'd never seen so many stars.

...

When he awoke in the morning he was alone, for the first time in many days.

She's gathering plants, he told himself for the first hour, as he watched the sun rise.

She's climbing a tree, he told himself for the second and third hours, as he stretched his legs, warmed his fingers.

Maybe I should go look for her, he said the fourth hour.

_But where would I look?_

For the fifth and sixth hours he fought, with limited success, his rising swelling panic.

_Where could she be?_

Was she hurt, lying somewhere in the woods alone and in pain?

Or, had she simply tired or him, abandoned him finally?

He paced the clearing, back and forth, until he wore a dirty path in the snow.

Finally, _finally_! Halfway through the eighth agonizing hour, he spotted her, moving slowly towards him across the great white expanse between their clearing and the stand of trees.

He stood stock still, watching and waiting. When she reached him he saw her face, her brave, beautiful face, pale and drawn, her eyes dim, her steps unsteady; yet none of that registered he realized, until later, later and too late.

"Where have you been?" he asked, staring at her. His voice shook.

"I was…detained," she said, spreading her hands wide, as if in supplication. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

"Silly girl," was all he said, all he could say. She was _there_, she had returned; she hadn't left him, after all, so he only took her in his arms and held her so tightly she gave little involuntary gasp before she wrapped her arms about him, too, and held on for dear life.

...

She slept that night across his legs, her head cradled uneasily by his hips, one arm thrown carelessly across his knees, one hand entwined in his.

He didn't close his eyes until almost dawn.

An hour later he awoke to a sudden warmth, an unexpected thaw.

He looked up.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

_Drip_.

_Drip_.

The snow above him was melting. It felt like tears on his face. It was raining. She awoke and looked up, too, and smiled wide and brilliant.

When she looked at him her eyes were full of tears.

So many tears.

"It's almost time to go," she murmured.

"Go where?" he said.

"_Home_."

...

They started walking just after the sun rose.

She walked slowly and so he did, as well.

They followed the stream for a short time, then stopped.

"That way," she said, pointing towards the trees. He followed for 50, 100 feet, before she stopped again.

"Well," she said quietly, looking about. "This is where we part." She gazed up at him.

"Part?" He felt inexplicable sorrow and fear at the thought.

"For awhile," she said. Her hands were tucked into her jean pockets. Her face was pale and drawn. She peered at him. "How do you feel?"

He considered. He felt…good. For the first time in a long while. He studied her face in return. Deep purple shadows hugged the skin beneath her eyes. Her mouth was open as she breathed, shallow and raspy breaths.

"Are _you_ quite all right?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

She nodded. "I'll be fine. But, I do need to go now."

"And…what of me?" He knew the words sounded childish. "What will I do?"

She smiled. "You're going to be just fine, Severus. Don't worry. I'll see you again soon."

He felt a sharp pain as he looked into her face. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he thought of their kiss. He felt suddenly like crying. She threw her arms around him suddenly and hugged him. He, so unused to being touched, hugged her back, his hands meeting at the small of her back and pulling her as close to him and possible. She might have been trembling, but it might have been him, too, so he wasn't sure. When she pulled away, too soon he thought, she extended her hand and he grasped it. Her skin was cool and clammy against his. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to say so many things but no words would come. She smiled once more, then turned and walked away, snow crunching beneath her feet. He watched her retreating form, dark against the brightness of the snow. She was following a path to the woods and he felt a sudden pang of fear for her safety once she entered the stand of trees and disappeared.

He realized his hand still felt moist from her touch and he looked down at it. He blinked at it stupidly. His skin was red. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed once, twice. It was _blood_. There was blood all over the palm of his hand. He turned his hand this way and that, examining it. There was _blood_ all over his hand, but he wasn't cut.

It wasn't his blood.

His head snapped up, his gaze driving into the trees, at the spot where she'd vanished. He was running before he realized he'd commanded his legs to do so. He felt the icy air enter his lungs, felt the flare of pain in his under-used legs as he pumped. He looked down, saw red drops in the snow…he counted them without thinking. Four…five…six…They grew larger as he dove into the shadows of the woods, head turning back and forth as he searched for her. He opened his mouth to call to her when he saw her. She hadn't, after all, made it very far.

She was slumped against the trunk of a tree, eyes closed.

"Hermione," he breathed, and ran to her. He crouched in front of her still form, his eyes raking her face. Her too pale, too still face. Why hadn't he noticed before? He cursed himself for his blindness.

She heard his voice, opened her eyes.

"Well," she murmured, focusing on him. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"You're…hurt," he said and his voice stuck in his throat. "What's happened? What's wrong? Why didn't you tell me?" He heard himself babbling but he couldn't stop.

_What what what what?_

His hands pushed frantically at her torso, searching for the source of the blood. He pushed her sweater up, up, up, saw snow white skin, an expanse of stomach, of chest and then—

He cursed. His voice reverberated between the trees.

Blood, blood. _So much blood_.

And, dear Merlin, two large _holes_ in the side of her. Holes weeping blood steadily into the snow beneath her. A circle of red beneath her body and growing larger.

"What…" he gasped. "Who did this?"

She only shook her head, her eyes closing. She was losing consciousness; he could see that.

Any fool could see that.

He pulled her sweater back down and scooped her up, his arms cradling her shoulders and her bent knees. He ran blindly through the trees, her head bobbing wildly against his chest.

Where was he to go? Where? _Where_? He realized he had no idea where they _were_. No idea. She was dying in his arms and he didn't know what to do. He could feel her bloody body, still warm and full of life, blood seeping into his cloak, into his skin as he ran. He could hear his breath, hard and panicked, could hear his feet punching holes into the snow.

She could not die. She could not. He could not allow that. Anything, anything, oh anything but that.

He exited the woods. He was running across a long, white expanse toward nothing but more whiteness. He looked down at her still form, at her blood-soaked clothes, at her hands, small and twisted in the folds of his robes and he let out as gasp that sounded like a sob.

He heard another sound then, one that made him stop short, his feet skidding beneath him, his breaths huffing hard in his ears.

_Where were they?_

He looked around. Trees, encircling them. The sky, wide and bright, above them. He looked down.

His mouth opened. No sound emerged.

They were on a lake. A frozen lake. He swiped his foot back and forth, moving the snow away, feeling the frozen, rippled surface just beneath.

_The sun was warm. Everything was melting._

Dear Merlin.

He closed his eyes. He didn't move.

"Hang on Hermione. Hang on. Hang on _hang on hang on_. I'll get us out of this—" he murmured, pleaded, and took one step back, just before he heard he heard the sharp report of ice cracking and cracking again, reverberating back and forth across the too wide, white expanse. He stopped dead, frozen with fear. He looked down into Hermione's pale, pale face—

_I won't let anything happen to you—_

Then he was falling, sharp and sudden, they were both falling, through the ice and into the frozen depths beneath. Water filled his mouth, his nose, he couldn't move, couldn't think, and his only thought was for Hermione. He clutched her to him with arms that could no longer feel _anything_—

_I knew a woman I knew a woman I—_

He opened his mouth as if to scream, as if to scream for _help_, but no sound emerged and only water rushed in, water wouldn't stop rushing in, filling his mouth and his lungs and his body, much as the _Rubercuratio racemus_ had so many days earlier.

He tried to hang onto Hermione, but his numb arms no longer cooperated and he felt her slipping away. He tried to scream he tried to yell he tried _he tried he tried_—

It was all darkness, he realized as he twisted and turned and kicked in the glacial depths, and it was all water and it was all bitter cold and it was _everywhere_.

The trick, he realized, later, much later and much too late, was not to _breathe_—

But he sucked in another huge mouthful and—

...

_tbc_


	4. The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

**Title:** It's Elemental, My Dear Snape  
**Author:** cathedral carver  
**Pairing:** Snape/Hermione  
**Spoilers:** AU after _Deathly Hallows_  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** Everything has been figured out, except how to live. Pay attention – there's a test later.

...

**4. Air**

_"Castles in the air — they are so easy to take refuge in. And so easy to build, too."_

...

—he sat bolt upright gasping and coughing, lungs and throat burned raw with the effort of trying to draw — or expel — breath, and he was clutching wildly at something —_someone_ — who simply wasn't there anymore.

_Hermione!_

He thought he'd screamed it, but all that emerged were more great, wet rasping noises that sounded suspiciously like a dying man's last desperate gurgles.

Then he did hear a scream. A female scream.

_Hermione?_

"Dear Merlin!" he heard someone exclaim. "Oh my heart! Severus! Oh! Oh! You're…_awake_!"

He blinked several times and forced his wild eyes to focus on his new surroundings, which were mainly sterile white and not new, after all. He was sitting on a bed in Hogwart's Infirmary. Then he focused on the owner of the astounded voice: Poppy Pomfrey, clutching her chest, and staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

_What the—_

Her hands were on him then, calm, efficient, feeling his forehead, pressing for a pulse, running fingers over the side of his neck.

"Stop that!" he ordered, pulling back. "I'm fine!"

"Fine? Fine?" she peered into his face. "My dear man, you have the distinction of treading closer to death than any patient I've ever had the honour of treating. And why are you all _wet_?" She touched his sleeve. "Did another fever break—"

He shook his head impatiently.

"Never mind. Listen to me: _Hermione_…where is—"

"What?" She frowned.

"Hermione Granger." He spoke loudly, clearly. Had the woman gone deaf? "Where is she? Is she all right?"

"Miss Granger? Severus—"

He wanted to throw his head back and howl with frustration.

"She's been _injured_. She's _bleeding_."

Poppy placed her hand on his forehead, then his cheek. He resisted the urge to turn his head and bite her, hard.

"And how do you know this?" She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

"What do you mean? I _know_, infernal woman, because I brought her here, didn't I? I mean, _I'm_ here, so _she_ must be—" He stopped, forcing himself to calm. "Who pulled us from the lake?"

"The _lake_?"

He was going to scream. He could feel it building, just behind his lips.

"Severus," Poppy said slowly, looking rather alarmed. "You've not moved from that exact spot for the past _six weeks_." She jabbed a finger at his bed.

Snape stopped breathing.

"But…"

"Hermione Granger brought _you_ here, from the Shrieking Shack, after you'd been attacked by that horrid snake. Honestly, I'm ashamed to admit I thought you a lost cause…_so much_ blood, oh. But…as it turned out, her actions appear to have saved your life after all—"

At the word blood, Snape started and overrode her, his voice catching in his throat.

"She's injured, Poppy. I…I carried her…we…we fell in the lake—" He heard himself babbling.

"Severus, I'm going to have to insist that you lie down now," Poppy said shortly, her brows knitting in concern. "You have been nowhere near a lake, of that I can assure you 100 percent. And Miss Granger, I'm assuming, is doing exactly what she's been doing for the past six weeks, which is assisting in the rebuilding of Hogwarts."

"_What_?"

"Many of the students stayed…_after_," she said, simply. "There was so much to be done, repairs, sorting and organizing. All that damage. The greenhouses alone, goodness!…And many of the students…well," she shrugged. "Many of them had nowhere else to go." She smiled then. "I'm sure she'll be quite delighted to hear that you're awake, though. She's been most concerned."

"But…she's been…looking after me…for _weeks_. Potions…herbs…she _climbed a tree_—"

"Well, thank you very much," Poppy said, mock hurt. "While I've not climbed any trees, I _have_ been looking after you. I've been administering your medicine, sitting with you through the horrible fevers, changing your bedclothes—"

Severus stifled a moan and covered his face.

"I mean," Poppy said rather grumpily, "Miss Granger _is_ the one who suggested the use of Great Mullein, I'll admit, but—"

"She's been here, then," he spoke slowly through his fingers. He could not get his mind around this bizarre twist in reality. Nothing was making any _sense_.

"Yes, from time to time, popping in to check on your progress. She was quite adamant, in the beginning, about your course of treatment. We actually had words about it!" Poppy _tsked_. "She backed off eventually, when she saw my treatments were, at the very least, keeping you alive. She can be quite stubborn, that girl."

"Quite," he whispered, his mind still reeling with the shock. His head shot up. "I should thank her then. I _must_ thank her. Where is she?"

"I'm sure keeping busy somewhere," Poppy said dismissively. "You mustn't worry about it now, however. _You_ need to rest." She moved to push him back on the bed, but he resisted.

"I've been resting for, what did you say, six weeks! I'm bloody well done resting. I feel fine!" He couldn't fight the rising, undeniable panic that was squirming beneath his ribs. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. He couldn't have imagined it all. He couldn't have.

Life couldn't be _that_ cruel.

Could it?

But, this was _his_ life he was talking about, after all.

He swung his bare feet over the side of the bed, much to Poppy's horror.

"Severus! Don't make me magic you!"

"How many times do I need to tell you—" he began as he stood. Then he swiftly fell.

Oh. _Damn_.

"Stubborn man!" Poppy fluttered over him, clucking like a crazed hen. He groaned, his cheek pressed against the cold floor. He was staring morosely into the shadows beneath his bed when he saw it.

A mound of cloth. A terribly familiar mound of cloth. With trembling fingers he reached out and touched it, pulled it towards him.

Her bag.

Poppy heaved him into a sitting position, his back against the bed frame, the bag in his lap. He opened it, peered inside. Her books. Her cup. Her little cauldron. Dirt. Matches. A handful of Calendula leaves, roots. Wood betony.

_Also an aphrodisiac, or didn't you know?_

He started laughing, rather hysterically, he realized when he saw the expression on Poppy's face.

"That's Miss Granger's," she said unnecessarily when she realized what he was clutching to his chest. "She must have left it last time she—"

"I knew it! It wasn't a dream! She _did_ climb a tree! I _knew_ it!" He shouted through the laughter that was veering quickly to tears and the last thing he remembered was Poppy's wide, frightened eyes, her wand, a flash of light, and then darkness.

...

He awoke some hours later — the sun had moved and longer shadows were angled across the floor, the walls — to find a most unwelcome face watching him.

He closed his eyes. Then he opened them again.

Potter. And he wasn't going away.

"What," Snape growled, "do you want?"

"You're…alive."

_You're an idiot._

They stared at one another. Snape sighed. "Spit it out, Potter."

"I wanted to…apologize, for…well, a lot of things, actually." Harry cleared his throat. _Dear Merlin,_ Snape thought, _is he going to weep?_ "A lot of people want to…talk to you," he finished lamely.

"Really? Oddly enough I wish to speak to absolutely no one."

_Well, almost no one._

"Professor McGonagall has been by. And Professor Flitwick. Several students. I…we…_everyone_ was wrong about you," the insufferable boy — _well, no longer a boy, exactly_, Snape realized — went on.

"Not everyone," he corrected, his heart clenching.

Harry studied him. He seemed to want to say something, but kept stopping himself. Finally:

"Is there…anything I can…do for you, Professor?" he said.

Snape dug his teeth into the tip of his tongue, hating to have to ask Potter for _anything_, but really, what choice did he have at the moment?

He took a breath, tried to make his voice as steady as possible.

"Yes, Potter. Make yourself useful for once and bring me Hermione Granger."

...

_Dear Merlin, had the boy gotten himself lost? Fallen in a hole? Stopped to snog one of his many fervent admirers?_

An hour later Snape sat in his bed, fingers twisting the bed sheets into damp peaks and creases when Harry skidded into the room, his face flushed. Snape craned his neck, his heard thudding, looking for _her_ face—

Potter was alone.

"Well?" he barked.

"I can't find her, sir."

Snape narrowed his eyes menacingly.

"I asked you to do one thing! One simple, bloody thing!"

"Well, see," Harry stopped, his breathing rather ragged. He'd been running, Snape realized. Running or…scared. "No one can find her."

"What do you mean _no one can find her_?" Snape addressed the six people standing before him, snarling as though he was back in the classroom, surrounded once again by utter incompetents.

It all felt so familiar.

But this classroom included the concerned faces of Minerva McGonagall, Pomona Sprout and Poppy, as well as Potter, Weasley and his equally aggravating sister.

Minerva was still staring at him with a rather amusing expression of astonishment and disbelief: the same she'd been wearing since she'd walked in and found him alert and barking orders some 20 minutes previous. Then she'd hugged him. He'd let her.

"When was the last anyone actually saw her? _Think_!"

"She was at dinner yesterday," Ron supplied. Snape ignored him.

"She stopped by the greenhouse after that," said Pomona. "About 7 p.m., I'd say. I thought she was coming to help repot the bouncing bulbs, but she only stayed for a moment. I'm not sure where she went afterwards."

_All right. Good._

"She was in the common room last night," Ginny supplied. "About 9 p.m. But she left, and she wasn't back by the time I went to sleep…and she was gone when I woke up this morning."

_Okay. Now they were getting somewhere._

"Was she at breakfast this morning?"

_No._

"Was she at lunch?"

_No._

"It's now 5:40 p.m. Am I to understand that _no one_ has seen her since nine last night?"

Potter's mouth was grim and Weasley looked positively green.

"We've all been so…busy," Ginny said lamely into the silence.

"Now, now," said Minerva briskly. "She's probably holed up in the library, or down in the dungeons. She's certainly spent enough time down there the past few weeks—"

"We need to find her," Severus said very quietly. "She needs to be found before—" He was unable to finish.

"How do you—" Weasley began, his eyes wide.

"That hardly matters, does it? Look everywhere and report back to me! Find her!"

Her three friends gaped at him.

"Well?" he roared. "What are you waiting for? Go!"

They went.

"Severus," Minerva said gently after a tense moment. "You've been through a terrible ordeal. No one is denying that. But perhaps—"

He closed his eyes.

"I've been through more than you will ever know, or ever believe."

"_I_ believe your sensibilities have been compromised," Poppy said bluntly. "No offense, Severus, but before this morning I had all but given you up for dead."

"I'm touched." His lip curled. "But Herm— _Miss Granger_ assisted me. Now she needs my assistance."

The three woman exchanged skeptical glances.

"I have no ready explanation for your sudden and—" Poppy raised a speculative eyebrow, "—miraculous recovery. But, I can assure you it had little to do with Miss Granger."

_You're wrong, he thought_, turning his head away. _It had everything to do with her._

_...  
_

The silence, the waiting, the helplessness, the not knowing: it was all more than he could bear.

_(We've searched the library, not there. She's not in the dungeons. Hagrid helped us in the Forbidden Forest — no sign of her.)_

He turned the bag over, spilled its contents onto his bed. The sight of her belongings spread across his legs, so sweetly familiar, made his throat ache and he blinked hard.

He pushed various roots and leaves aside, his trembling fingers brushing over the dirt. He picked up one of the books, thought of all the hours she had spent holding it, her fingers resting where his were now.

There had to be a clue, something here, _something_. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what she'd said, every single thing she'd told him as she'd slowly healed him back together.

_You're here._

_You're not dead._

_The usual rules don't apply._

_Come to me in my dreams, and then by day I shall be well again._

"_Do you think you're dreaming?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Perhaps you are, then."_

"_And you're dreaming too?"_

"_Perhaps I am."_

His eyes snapped open.

Wait a minute.

What else? _Think_, Severus.

_You know Calendula is known to cause lucid dreaming._

He sucked in air.

_Could that be it? Could it be—_

He opened the book in his hands, found _Calendula officinalis,_ page 34, dog-eared, dirty, creased. He scanned its properties once, twice. It was as he thought: It was not _meant_ to be consumed. She'd used it in the poultice for his neck. Had she altered it? Had she actually made a _potion_ from it? No, _no_. She couldn't have. It was incredibly dangerous to ingest the plant—

He pored over the potion, peering at her tiny notes in the margins. His heart thudded. She'd altered it all right. He shook his head in disbelief as his brain registered the various elements, their distorted measurements.

_If this is what she'd been doing, what she'd done in order to…be with me…_

It was then that he noticed one last thing. A small piece of paper, folded several times, all but overlooked when mixed in with the bag's other contents. He picked it up with shaking fingers and unfolded it. Contained within were dozens of black fibres, none more than an inch long. He leaned close, poked them with his finger.

Dear Merlin.

Hair.

_His_ hair.

Fighting down nauseating hysteria he shoved everything back in the bag and leapt from his bed.

...

Severus didn't know the girl who came to the door of the Gryffindor common room, but she, apparently, recognized him.

"Aren't you—" she said in an awed, hushed voice, but Severus barked his request over her words, loudly, urgently.

The girl stared, then laughed out loud and turned to the students who had come to stand behind her.

"Does Hermione Granger even _own_ a hairbrush?"

...

Safely ensconced in the potions classroom, he once more studied her miniscule notes, anxious to follow her directions precisely, desperate to not miss a single step.

He added the tiny snippets of her hair last.

_Would it work? Had he boiled it thoroughly? Was the concentration high enough? What if she'd altered it further and hadn't thought to write it down?_

With shaking hands he poured the potion — pale yellow, smelling of the woods — into the cup, the very cup that had bumped against his lips countless times, brought him back from his own fiery hell, and drank it down. The effect was almost immediate — rising darkness, swirling vertigo — and it was all he could do to stagger to the wall and slide down it. He closed his eyes, clutched her bag to his chest and pictured her face in his mind—

When he opened his eyes again night was falling and he was standing in front of the hut.

_Their_ hut. He scrambled through the door, and even before his eyes fully adjusted to the dimness, he saw her—

She was curled against a wall, her head resting on her arm. Her hair was wet and stuck to the sides of her face. Her sweater was soaked through with blood. His relief at seeing her again bloomed hot and hard in his chest as he stood and studied her too still form.

_Was she—?_

Then he knelt, touched her head. She looked up at him, smiled weakly and his heart nearly burst. He wanted to wrap his arms around her but was desperately afraid he'd hurt her.

"This is an interesting development," she said. Then, "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk to you." He tried to smile.

"How…how _did_ you…?"

"Your books, your notes." He raised an eyebrow. "Your _hair_."

"Oh." She looked only slightly embarrassed. "You found my bag," she said, nodding. "I was looking for that."

"Hermione," he said as calmly as possible. "A lot of people are looking for _you_. We can't…_find_ you." He swallowed.

"But…I'm right here," she said. Then frowned. "Aren't I?"

"Yes. But, where were you, before you were here?"

She thought. "Well. I was with _you_…wasn't I?"

He closed his eyes briefly. "_After_ you were with me…_before_ you came back here."

"I'm so tired." She pressed her hands to her stomach. "I don't feel good."

"You're injured," he reminded her. "And…you're sick."

"Sick?"

"You've gone and poisoned yourself, you daft girl."

"Well," she sniffed, "_that's_ not quite fair. It was actually the gigantic spider's fault—"

_Spider?_

_Was she delirious?_

"What are you talking about?"

She sighed. "I was becoming immune to it, the Calendula, over time. I had to keep upping the dosage to attain the same effect. I had to keep getting _more_. But the last time I went—"

"Where? Where do you get it? You need…you need to tell me where you are," he said, his voice shaking. "Do you understand? Where are you, _right now_?"

She closed her eyes. She appeared to be losing consciousness.

"Hermione, quickly — tell me where you are!"

"Oh!" She looked up at him. "I'm in the Forbidden Forest. I go there to replenish my supplies. I can only get so much from the greenhouse, you see, it was horribly damaged—"

Snape closed his eyes. "We've looked there," he said, his voice shaking.

"In…a _cave_," she clarified, as if this was obvious. "I…managed to crawl in…after…" She looked at him. "I had to get _away_, you see."

Realization dawned on his face.

"I was trying to be brave," she added.

"I know. And you've been so brave for so long." He smoothed her hair. "But, there are a lot of people waiting and worrying. It's time to let someone look after you, for a change."

She opened her eyes and gazed fully into his. She took his hand and nodded.

He stood up.

"No!" she said, panicked.

"I will see you very soon."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

She sighed.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find you."

...

He'd never run so fast in his life. Branches clawed his face, tore at his cloak in the full dark as he dashed through the thick foliage, heart pounding in his ears.

There was only one cave that he knew of in the Forest, close to the Acromantula's hunting ground. If she wasn't there—

No. He would not think of that. Not yet.

He saw the black, yawning mouth of the cave ahead. Picking up speed, he darted within, eyes moving wildly in the almost pitch blackness.

She was curled there, just inside the entrance, lying in the exact same position as he'd found her in the hut, blood pooled beneath her, an empty vial clutched in one hand. He put his hands on her.

She was so still, but still so warm.

She opened her eyes at once and smiled.

"You found me," she said.

"Come, Hermione," he said as he gathered her into his arms. "It's time to go home."

...

She took a deep breath. She moved her hand, then her head.

She opened her eyes.

She smiled.

Every single person gathered around her bed grinned simultaneously — Harry and Ron and Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Hagrid, Minerva and Pomona, Professors Flitwick and Sprout and Vector.

Severus remained where he was, his back against the wall, his hands clasped tightly behind him.

No one took any notice of his tall, dark, sombre figure. He wasn't even sure if Hermione saw him there at all, flanked as she was by all those people.

No one but Poppy looked his way and she watched him, an odd expression on her face: _How did you know?_ It said. _How? How?_

He simply smirked, his eyes hard and dark, his lips oddly twisted as his gaze returned to Hermione.

Then everyone was hugging her and talking to her and weeping tears of joy at her awakening. Weasley enveloped her in a hug and she hugged him in return and the last image Snape saw before he turned and fled was that of Ron Weasley kissing Hermione Granger full on the mouth, and of her kissing him back.

...

She found him, alone in the dungeons, several weeks later. The afternoon of her rather extravagant Welcome Back to the World party, to be exact.

He'd promised Minerva he'd attend. He'd lied.

She stood in the doorway, watching him without a word.

"Miss Granger," he said finally, unnerved by her silence. There was something accusatory in her face he didn't care to investigate. "Isn't there a cake somewhere with your name on it?"

"There were too many people…too much noise…" she said. "I couldn't breathe." She paused. "And, _you_ weren't there."

"Indeed I was not."

Still she didn't move.

"You…you didn't come to see me," she said, and try as she might, she couldn't keep the hurt out of her voice. "In the Infirmary."

"You had more than enough company," he said. "You were never alone." _Except at night_, he didn't add. He went to see her at night, when it was darkest, and stillest. And even then he only allowed himself enough time to make sure she was still breathing. He'd count _one two three four five_ steady breaths, before he'd turn and leave.

He never touched her.

She stepped into the room slowly, her eyes on his face. She was making him positively edgy.

He crossed his arms and gave her his best glare. "As long as you're here, tell me: How on earth did you figure it out?"

"What?"

"All of it. The lucid dreaming. The ability to communicate. _All_ of it."

She shrugged. "I didn't just sit around on my arse reading _The Tales of Bloody Beedle the Bard_ all last year, you know."

_What?_

"I did a vast amount of research, especially in the area of coma victims and telepathy once I realized there was a likely chance that Harry could be rendered unconscious at some point. And when the snake became more prominent, I added various poisons and their antidotes into my research. I needed a way to communicate with him if it ever came to that."

"But, you never had a chance to use it."

"No."

"Until—"

"Until I saw an opportunity to put my research into practice. I mean, Madam Pomfrey is quite skilled, of course," Hermione sniffed, "but she was following a completely traditional course of treatment. Blue _Vervain_? I could see right away it was never going to work, at least not quickly enough. So."

His heart slowed.

"So…that's what I was? An experiment? A _project_?"

She lifted her chin; she could plainly see the hurt etched in his face, but knew instinctively honesty was her best recourse. "Maybe," she said quietly, "in the very beginning. I…wanted to prove my theory. But, I also wanted to save you. Very much."

"Well, congratulations. You most definitely _exceeded expectations_."

He saw her frown at the tone of his voice.

"You're acting rude."

"I'm not acting."

"What are you doing down here, anyway?" she asked, coming closer. He tensed.

"Miss Granger— what do you want?" He slammed a book down with greater force than he'd meant. He wouldn't, _he refused_, to let her see how her very presence affected him.

"What do I want?" She blinked.

"Yes. Humour me."

She crossed her arms, clenched her jaw.

"Right now I want you to come up to the party."

He shook his head.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then you should have _specified_—"

"You _knew_ exactly what I meant—"

"Fine, then. I want—"

"_What_?" he ground out.

"I want things back the way they were." The words came out in a rush. "Everything's changed!"

"Of course _everything's changed_," he mimicked coldly and she flushed. Still, she persisted.

"It's all different and I hate it. I _want_—"

She bit her lip, debating. When she spoke her voice was so low he could barely hear her.

"I want you to call me Hermione again. I want…I want you to kiss me again."

His heart leapt, and he moved towards her, almost involuntarily, but then stopped and arranged his expression into a bitter sneer instead. "That, you silly girl, is about as far outside the realm of possibility as you becoming Potions Master."

"Why?"

"Why? Are you daft? I think drinking high concentrations of Calendula, day after day, has affected your brain—"

"Well, it worked, didn't it!" she shouted at last, hands curled into tight balls at her sides. "What do you care, anyway?"

_What did he _care_? Was she blind? Could she really not _see_?_

"You silly, selfish girl. You almost died. Twice." He swallowed hard against his rising gorge, at the memory of her lifeless body in his arms, of her blood, of the sound of ice cracking and splitting—

"But I didn't die."

"I know! I was there, in case you hadn't noticed! I saved your life!"

"And I saved yours, or have you forgotten?"

They glared at one another, both breathing heavily.

_Forgotten? _It's all he bloody fucking thought about, every second of every day.

"_You_ seem to have forgotten quickly enough." He could still see, whenever he closed his eyes, her lips pressed against Weasley's, his hands cupping her face.

"What does that mean?" she said.

He suddenly found himself weary beyond belief. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. It matters."

"Not to me," he lied.

"So, that's it then? We call it _even_ and just…move on?" Her chin trembled.

"What do you suggest? That we go on a _date_? That we find a secluded corner somewhere and _snog_?" He slammed another book down. It made a loud noise. It felt good.

"You owe me," she said suddenly.

"_What_?"

"I gave you another chance—"

"At what, exactly?"

"At _life_, you ungrateful prat!"

"Life," he said very quietly. "No. No, you gave me something far worse. You gave me _hope_ for something that is _impossible_."

"What are you talking about?" She moved closer. "What's impossible?"

He stared at her. She could hear him breathing.

She moved even closer.

"Severus?"

"_Don't call me that_!" he hissed so violently she actually jumped back. "Do I need to remind you that those rules don't apply here?"

"Don't mock me," she said. "You were kinder there. In that world."

"And we no longer inhabit that particular world, in case you hadn't noticed. And in this world we are a _joke_."

"That's not true." Now she was close to tears.

"It's not? Then go inform Potter," he sneered. "Go tell your giggling girlfriends, go tell _Weasley_ that you…_fancy_…me," he spat the word and Hermione flinched.

"I thought not. No. You'll end up marrying that buffoon, bear his spawn, spend your years cleaning his house, washing his shorts, spreading your legs—"

"Stop it!" she growled. "Stop it right now."

_Make me_, he almost spat.

The room was charged with the palpable sparks of their anger.

"Miss Granger," he said as calmly as possible against his racing pulse, but his voice shook, even so. "This is where we part."

"I see," she said, just as calmly, almost. "I guess we'll pretend none of this happened, then, and when I see you in class I'll just—"

"No," he said shortly.

"Pardon?"

"I said _no_, because you won't see me in class. I am leaving Hogwarts, effective immediately."

"_Pardon_?" She stared at him. "But Professor McGonagall said she offered you teaching positions for the fall, whichever you chose—"

"And I am choosing to turn them down. I no longer wish to teach. I have nothing left to teach, to anyone."

"You are being very selfish," she said quietly.

"And you are being insufferable, impractical, _stupid_—"

"Severus—"

She moved to him, reached out as if to touch him and he realized in that split second before her hand reached his that he could not bear that, for if he allowed her to touch him, he would grab her and hold her so tightly, he'd never, ever let her go.

"Get out!" he yelled, no longer able to control any of the emotions battling in his chest. "Get out and don't come back. I do not want to see you again."

She stepped away as if he'd struck her, and was halfway to the door, when he spoke once more:

"Miss Granger."

She turned.

"Do brush up on your potions this year. The leaves and roots of Blue Vervain are a valuable alternative medicine, and would have aided my recovery much more efficiently than, say, Agrimony or…Wood betony."

He saw a shine of tears and the tremulous line of her mouth. She turned and fled.

_I knew a woman—_

He looked around him and saw nothing, his vision blinded by rage and sorrow and a pain greater than any poison.

He grabbed a jar and threw it, hard. It smashed, which pleased him. He grabbed another and threw it, and another and another and another and another _and another_. Anything even remotely breakable, anything that would leave a deep viscous smear on any visible surface, was fair game in his frantic hands.

When he was done he was panting and sweating, and he was also crying and very close to hyperventilating, he realized.

_If only I could just die_, he thought, burying his head in his hands. _Just lie down somewhere and die, that would be all right_.

But life, after all, was cruel, and his traitorous lungs just kept drawing in air.

...

_tbc_


	5. Subtler Than Light

**Title:** It's Elemental, My Dear Snape  
**Author:** cathedral carver  
**Pairing:** Snape/Hermione  
**Spoilers:** AU after _Deathly Hallows_  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Summary:** Everything has been figured out, except how to live. Pay attention – there's a test later.

...

**5. Aether**

"_There is no space without aether, and no aether which does not occupy space."_

_...  
_

Also known as The Fifth Element, aether was originally the personification of the "upper sky," space and heaven. According to Einstein's theories of Relativity, particles could move faster than light and communicate telepathically through an aetheric medium.

...

He continued to dream about her, after all, a fact that he found both infinitely comforting and infinitely distressing.

Near enough to touch, to smell, to kiss, if he so chose — but did not — she was always _there,_ waiting, warm and familiar, as he drifted away into sleep and the all-too-real dreams that inevitably followed.

And they _were_ dreams, he convinced himself, because he _was_ asleep, and when he awoke he was quite alone, in his bed, in his room, in his house, far away from anything even remotely connected to one Hermione Granger.

Sometimes he found her waiting for him in the hut, smiling and welcoming, sometimes by the _Rubercuratio racemus_ tree, and sometimes in the forest where he'd once cradled her, bleeding and trembling. He supposed — he _reasoned,_ sternly — that these episodes, these meetings, were not like…Before. _These_ were different. His subconscious mind had simply catalogued those intense experiences, held onto them, and was now replaying them, scene by scene again in dreams, for no matter how desperately to tried to forget that time, and forget her, he could not escape either in sleep.

"Hello, again," Dream Hermione said, falling into step beside him. Tonight's dream found them strolling along the banks of the stream, which was now fuller and faster than it had been the last time they'd visited, when she had waded in up to her knees, arm raised, hair blown across her mouth. The sun was shining and a breeze, light and warm, rustled the leaves above them.

"Hello," he said, studying her profile. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"This is nice, isn't it?" she said after a moment.

"Very."

"And _you're_ being nice," she said.

He decided she was teasing and did not reply.

It was _all_ very nice and, for the first time in his life, he found himself looking forward to his dreams.

...

_Dear PROFESSOR SNAPE,_

_You will be pleased — I hope — to know that I have suffered no lasting ill effects of my excessive Calendula imbibing. I know you were _most_ concerned about my well-being when I saw you last._

_I realize you said you didn't want to see me again, but you said nothing about writing, and I am nothing if not a stickler for the little details._

_School is keeping me busier than ever and, despite your misgivings, I am pulling top marks in Potions once again. I'm sure that news will thrill you._

_Do you miss teaching? It must be strange to not be here, after so many years. It's certainly strange to not have you here. I mean, everyone says so, not just me._

_I hope this letter finds you well and feel free to reply, if you have anything of interest to share. Or, if you should just like to let me know you are alive, I should like to know that, as well._

_I suppose that's it, then._

_Looking forward to hearing from you._

_All for now._

_MISS GRANGER_

_...  
_

He had, indeed, felt the tug, the almost physical wrench, on his body, his psyche, the first day classes resumed at Hogwarts.

As he stood amongst his half-packed sitting room, trunks and boxes stacked here and there and her letter clutched in one hand, he wondered if he'd made the right decision.

He never imagined he would miss teaching this much.

He never imagined he would miss _her_ this much.

...

They were seated in the hut, staring at a fire that burned merrily before them. Dream Hermione was tossing small sticks into it, her chin resting on her knees.

"Are you keeping busy?" she asked idly.

"Pardon?"

"Well, I mean, since you're not teaching this year, I just wondered what you're doing with all that free time. Are you reading? Are you researching? I mean," she teased, "you're certainly not doing any _writing_, are you?"

She tossed another stick, watched it flame and wither.

"_Pardon_?"

He looked at her, but in the flickering light, he could not properly see her eyes.

...

_Dear PROFESSOR SNAPE,_

_I see you have chosen to not reply to my last letter, but don't worry — I am not easily deterred!_

_Life here is busy, but routine, which is a most effective way to ignore those pressing concerns you don't dare ponder too deeply. I'm sure you know what I mean._

_I don't have anything particularly brilliant to report. I just felt like writing a letter, so here it is._

_I'm feeling rather low, if you must know, and overwhelmed and tired and, well, lonely._

_How are you passing the time? You can tell me in your letter, if you'd like. When you write one._

_I would like to say that the students miss you, but I'm not sure that's exactly true. I, however, do miss you._

_MISS GRANGER_

_...  
_

They were walking the path from the woods to the stream in companionable silence.

"This feels very…familiar," he remarked.

"Well, we've done this before."

He looked at her.

"So, you do remember."

Dream Hermione looked at him. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well," he began, drawing his brows together. "This is _my_ dream, is it not? I wouldn't expect you to know particulars about this…place."

"But I know everything about it, you daft man," she said. "For instance, you kissed me, right over there!" and she jabbed a finger at the tree.

He stared at her.

"You haven't been slipping any Calendula into your tea lately, have you?"

"No. I told you I haven't."

"When?"

"In my first letter."

They stared at one another, unsure of how to proceed, what to say.

"Pardon me?"

"My _letters_, which you have been ignoring, I might add." She paused. "Unless you haven't even received them. Damn owls."

"This _is_ a dream," he said suddenly, backing up a step and shaking his head. "Isn't it?"

She shrugged, holding her hands out in front of her, startled, supplicating. "If it is, I think I'm having the same one."

He took a breath.

"_I would like to say that the students miss you, but I'm not sure that's exactly true. I, do, however, miss you," _he recited with a small sneer. She gaped at him. "I mean, there's no need to get all _mushy_, is there?"

"Wait one bloody minute," she said, hands on her hips, her face a thunderstorm as she glared at him. "What's going on here? And where the hell's my hair brush?"

...

_DEAR PROFESSOR SNAPE,_

_Yes, I'm giving you yet another chance to do the decent thing and write me back._

_I'm not sure what is going on here, but I would appreciate your input, if nothing else. No need to get all "mushy." Believe it or not, at the moment I'm only interested in your estimable brain power._

_You know the address._

_MISS GRANGER_

_...  
_

In truth, he had absolutely no idea what was going on. Was his addled, lovesick mind playing cruel tricks on him?

Was he brain damaged?

Possible.

Was _she_ brain damaged?

More possible.

While the notion seemed likely, he still wasn't completely convinced.

Were the two of them somehow…_connected_?

Dear Merlin.

And that thought, above all others, caused him to toss and turn at night, clutching his temples, holding the inevitable dreams, and her, at bay.

...

"What's happened to your hand?" he asked suddenly. They were sitting with their backs against the _Rubercuratio racemus_ tree, listening to the wind above them. She was playing idly with the dirt, letting it sift through her fingers when he caught a glimpse of red on her pale skin. He took her hand in his. There was a nasty, half-healed weal across the thin skin of her wrist. He wanted to lean down and press his lips to it.

"Burned it in Potions," she said shortly. "Look. Aren't you the least bit curious about what's going on here?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." She gestured at their surroundings. "We're here, again, and yet it's not like…Before. This is different. I'm not doing anything this time. It's happening _on its own_."

He looked away from her.

"Why don't you want to talk about it?"

Why? Because _talking_ about it would lead to _dissecting_ it, which would lead to _learning_ about it, then, of course, it would _change_, which would lead, inevitably, to—

The _end_ of it.

"You're obviously avoiding me in the _real_ world, and yet you allow these dreams to continue." She paused. "Why haven't you answered my letters?"

"There hasn't been anything worth replying to!" he spat. "Mindless prattle! 'Hope you're well!' 'I'm as bloody brilliant as ever!'" he mimicked.

"That's it," she said suddenly. "I need to come see you. When we're both _awake_."

"I don't think that's advisable." He rose and stood stiffly by the tree, arms at his sides, hands balled into fists. She stood in front of him, arms crossed, feet planted firmly.

"I don't care what you think," she said, clenching her jaw. "What's the date — December 24?" She pondered. "I'm supposed to…go to The Burrow tomorrow. I'll stop by after that."

"You don't know where I live," he said frantically. This couldn't be happening. He wouldn't _allow_ it to happen.

"I have the address. I'll find it."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath," he said, rolling his eyes. "With the fire stoked and the tea ready."

"Good," she said. "It's supposed to snow."

...

He shouldn't have been surprised at the knock on his door the following evening, but when he heard it — three brisk raps at 9:30 — he startled so badly he dropped his book on the floor and his heart did a slow cartwheel in his chest. He sat frozen for several moments, wondering if he had imagined the sound, when it came again.

_Rap rap rap._

Swallowing with some difficulty, he went to the door and, against his better judgment, flung it open, hoping the look on his face was both blackly threatening and yet carefully detached.

"Miss Granger," he said automatically, barely moving his lips. She was here. She'd come. They stood facing each other in the doorway, neither one moving forward nor back. They watched one another warily. "It's Christmas Eve. What on earth are you doing _here_?" he said finally.

Snow was falling on her hair. There were snowflakes on her cheeks, stuck to her eyelashes.

"I told you I'd find it," she said, then added, "Ron thinks I went home and my parents think I'm staying at The Burrow."

At the mention of Weasley's name Snape's heart momentarily stopped beating.

_Perfidious muscle_, he thought. Outwardly, he merely smirked, curling his lip most effectively.

"And what would they all say if they knew where you really were?"

She pulled her shoulders back. "I don't care."

"Really?" he drawled, still not moving an inch. "And yet, you chose not to tell them. Interesting."

Her jaw clenched. He resisted the very strong urge to dust the gathering snow off the top of her head.

"How did you get here, anyway?"

"I'm perfectly capable of maneuvering about the city on my own," she sniffed. Then, stiffly, "May I come in?"

"If you must," he said ungraciously, surprised any coherent sound could emerge past the enormous, hot lump lodged in his throat. He stepped aside and she brushed by him, unbuttoning her coat and stamping her feet.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I? I mean, I assumed you'd be…alone," she said, looking around to make sure. "No offense."

None taken. He usually spent the evening of December 24 — and most of the 25th, actually — getting drunk on Firewhisky and reading _A Christmas Carol_ for the 345th time.

Yes, he was very much alone.

"Sit," he said, then found she already had, in his favourite chair. He heaved a sigh and sat across from her, back ramrod straight and legs crossed. Now that she was here, actually _here_, he found he couldn't tear his gaze away from her.

"Why is it so dark in here?" she asked, shouldering off her coat.

"It's night time."

"Why don't you turn on more lamps?"

"Mood lighting," he snapped. "Maybe you'd like to get to the point, Miss Granger."

She looked at him.

"_Why_ are you here?"

"I told you why," she said, then paused. "Last night, when we…spoke?" She sounded suddenly unsure and Snape didn't know how to respond. He decided playing dumb was his best defense.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." He kept his expression carefully blank, regarding her as imperiously as he would any impertinent student.

He couldn't help noticing, however, that the snowflakes had melted, clumping her lashes so her eyes resembled dark stars. He swallowed hard.

"Oh," she murmured, disappointed. "I see." She had her hands clasped in her lap, and she lowered her head to study them. When she looked up at him, he realized her eyes were wet with tears.

"What is it?" he asked, alarmed.

"It's nothing," she shook her head, dislodging one lone tear. She pursed her lips. "It's _Ron_…he's asked me to marry him," she said thickly.

_Ah._

Though he moved not a fraction of an inch, Snape felt as though he'd imploded, somehow, that the floor beneath him had given way, and that he was falling through a great, black, gaping hole on which his fingers had no purchase. He closed his eyes for more than a blink. She was watching him closely, the rest of her tears very close to spilling over.

"I see," he finally managed to say. "And those," he gestured at her eyes with one shaking hand, "are tears of unadulterated joy, I'm to presume?"

She shook her head slowly. "I—"

"Well," he interrupted, standing abruptly and taking two glasses from the sideboard. He poured Firewhisky into both and thrust one at her, spilling amber liquid onto her lap. "How thoughtful of you to come and let me know in person. Congratulations are in order! Tell me, when is the big day?"

She took the glass but did not drink.

"There isn't one," she said dully. "I…didn't accept."

The sound of Snape's glass hitting the worn carpet made a dull thud and he jumped back.

"You didn't?" he whispered.

"It's utter insanity!" she choked out. "What on earth was he _thinking_? Marriage? First, we're entirely too young. And my schooling! My plans! Work and travel and maybe further schooling! I have so much I want to do before I even contemplate…I _won't_ start pushing out babies for some boy who doesn't have a bloody clue what I want!"

Composing himself with great difficulty, Snape _evanescoed_ the spilled drink and put his glass on the table beside him. Then, shaky, he sat once more, fearing his legs would give out at any moment.

"Women have been known to do both, you know, work _and_ have children," he said smoothly. "And war, if you hadn't realized already, has this curious…_effect_…on people. They are forced to grasp how short, how precious, life is. They want to expedite certain events." He took a deep breath. "They don't want to let those who matter most to them get away."

She gaped at him.

"You…_condone_ this, this lunacy?"

He shrugged, scrambling madly for even footing. "I foresaw it, if you'll recall. I can't believe you're actually surprised. People in love do the most impetuous things."

Hermione struggled, for once, to express herself.

"But…I don't love _him_," she said at last, in almost a whisper.

Snape's eyes widened before he caught himself. He looked down, brushed an invisible speck off his pants.

"Really?" he smirked.

"Not…not like that," she said.

"And now the pitiable Mr. Weasley knows that as well?"

She shrugged, miserable, turning the glass around and around in her hands. "I…didn't know what to say, to be honest. I was too gob smacked to say much at all. I may have laughed! I don't remember. But I certainly didn't say yes." She paused. "I _think_ he _thinks_ I'm _thinking_ about it."

Ah.

"But, _you_ have…made your decision?" He realized his voice sounded _hopeful_ and bit his tongue until he tasted blood. How did this girl manage to have this reprehensible effect on him, in his own house, too?

She nodded once and raised her eyes to his, but he saw too many things there, painful, exposed things, and he quickly looked away.

"Fine," he waved dismissively. "So you are rejecting poor Weasley's proposal. I'm sure you will receive many others that will be much more suited to your discerning taste in the coming years." His fingers dug into his thighs savagely. "But the question remains: Why are you _here_? Why have you interrupted my perfectly peaceful evening? Why are you telling _me_? Why do you think I give a bloody rat's arse who and when you choose to marry?"

His voice had risen steadily until it concluded with a shout that made the glass tremble on the table.

"I…had to talk to someone."

"Any old port in the storm," he muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

She took a breath and looked about the dimly lit room, desperate for a new avenue of conversation.

"You…haven't unpacked yet?"

"I am _packing_. I leave next week." She looked at him. "I'm traveling for six months."

"Oh." She nodded. She opened her mouth and he _knew_ she had a thousand questions, but she said only, "I _am_ interrupting you then."

"I think I made that clear already."

Still, neither one moved.

"My question remains, as well, however," she said quietly. "If you and I are not…" She paused, tentative. "If we're not meant to be…_together_—"

Snape stiffened.

"Then why are we still meeting with one another…in that world?" she said quickly. "We still have some sort of…_connection_. You can't deny that."

No, he could not. And yet, he would, because what possible good could come from admitting it?

_None._

"Power of suggestion. A coincidence. A glitch. Nothing more."

"A _glitch_?" She stared at him, then laughed, harsh. "Why can't you see what's happening?"

"Why can't you leave it alone?" he snapped.

She shrugged, her face unreadable.

"I need to know," she said. "After everything you — we — went through, after all the almost unendurable pain I saw you endure, I felt—"

"Ah," he pounced. "You pity me. I thought as much."

She glared at him. He glared back.

"Is that what you think?"

"I do. And I neither need nor want your pity, Miss Granger."

She stood then, and walked unsteadily towards him, hand clutching her glass so tightly he feared it might shatter. She walked towards him until her knees were almost touching his. He'd never seen her face so angry, not even in the potions classroom last summer when he'd made that rather rude comment about her sexual proclivities.

"You, _Professor_, have my deepest respect, my undying admiration, my devotion, my heart," she hissed, "but you do not, nor will you ever have, my pity."

He stared at her, mouth slightly agog.

_Wait. What was that fourth thing?_

"And don't ask me to repeat it. I know you heard me."

He swallowed.

She stared into the depths of the glass, lost in her thoughts.

"Ron…doesn't understand me. He thinks he does, but he doesn't, and he never will. After…after what happened between you and I…I couldn't tell him." She looked down at him. "I haven't told _anyone_."

"Nor have I," Snape said sharply. "Miss Granger: We shared a very…_difficult_, unusual experience, none of which, I may add, was of my doing. I was at your mercy. I had no say in the _experiment_ whatsoever."

"Don't start again," she warned. "I saved your—"

He held up a cautionary hand. "Don't _you_ start again."

"You need to stop feeling _sorry_ for yourself—"

He let out a long breath and seemed to deflate slightly.

"That time we…spent together," he interrupted suddenly, attempting to put words to a thing he hadn't dared speak about, had barely allowed himself to think about. "It…_mattered_ to me. It _affected_ me—"

"You don't think it mattered to _me_?" From the depths of her jumper she fished a silver locket — one he'd never seen before — and clicked it open with a fingernail. Inside, curled safely and still vibrantly yellow, was the Wood Sorel.

"_Oxalis Stricta," he said. "Heart-shaped cloverlike leaflets."_

"_Yes," she said._

_He leaned forward, plucked it impulsively, handed it to her._

"_Here," he said._

_She accepted without a word and stared down at it. When she looked up at him, her smile was tremulous, her eyes wet with tears._

_His heart lurched._

_Oh, he hadn't expected that._

She'd kept it.

"I—" he stammered.

"You don't think it affected _me_?" She yanked up the edge of her jumper, revealing the pale, pale skin of her midriff, marred by two large, round marks in the side; healed, of course, but puckered and silvery, and still faintly red around the edges.

"Well," he said faintly, feeling both wildly exhilarated and slightly ill. "We both have our scars to bear, don't we?"

She could only shake her head at him.

"What were you thinking, coming here?" He was suddenly angry beyond reason. "I told you quite plainly last summer I didn't want to see you again."

"In the dreams…things seemed different, like they were…before," she said miserably. "I thought you might be…happy to see me now."

"And you thought wrong, and now you're upset. What did you expect?" he snapped, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"I don't know," she admitted, biting her lip. She suddenly brought the glass to her mouth and swallowed its contents in one quick gulp. Blinking back tears at the unexpected burn, she looked directly at him. "I didn't expect any of _this_."

"Any of what?"

"I didn't expect it to _work_, first of all, _any_ of it. I didn't expect you to be so nice…I didn't expect to…look forward to…being there, in that world, and I didn't expect to miss that world so…_much_…I didn't expect—" she took a breath; it hitched in her throat. "…to fall in love with you."

Once, when Snape was a child, his father had fired a gun in the basement of their house. This felt like that. The sudden, short, sharp _shock_, the blast of noise and the infinite sound of silence afterwards, louder, somehow, than the blast itself. This was like that. It was truly defining. It reverberated in his ear drums. He could hear nothing else.

"Don't lie to me," he said at last, very slowly and deliberately. "And, more importantly, don't lie to yourself. Believe me when I say it is no way to live."

"You dare presume that you know what I'm feeling? That I'm _lying_?"

"I think you are too _young_ to—"

"And you are too _old_, am I right?"

"Perhaps," he said through a choking haze of self-loathing. Then, all in a rush: "What would you want me for, anyway? I would only repulse you."

She looked as if he'd slapped her. Her mouth dropped, her eyes widened.

"You…_that's_ what you think? That I'd be…_repulsed_ by you?"

He did not reply. He did not move. He did not blink. He could hear her faint, shallow breaths as she stared down at him, her hair lit like a halo by the lamp behind her.

Time slowed, and sound became weirdly amplified. He could clearly hear her shallow breaths, heard the small _clink_ as she put her glass down next to his, and she moved even closer to him, very, very slowly.

She leaned down, placed her hands on his knee. Very gently, but very firmly, she pushed it to the side, sliding his top leg off the bottom, so his foot landed with a soft thump on the floor. She hesitated for only a second, and before he realized what she was doing and could voice his disapproval, she straddled him, her knees resting on the edge of the seat of the chair, her weight resting on his thighs.

"Miss Granger—" he whispered. He'd meant with all his heart for it to serve a warning, but it sounded, to his horror, like an _invitation_.

"Professor Snape," she replied and her voice sounded both very far away and lodged, somehow, in his brain. He watched, mesmerized, as her throat worked once, twice, above the collar of her jumper. She took a breath and leaned down and very lightly pressed her lips to his jaw, right at the soft spot where it met the bottom of his ear. Her lips were warm but her skin still cold, despite its high colour. She lingered there, as if she was waiting for him to react, to push her off his lap roughly, to bolt from the room screaming. He could feel her warm breath on his neck, ruffling the ends of his hair.

"Miss _Granger_," he tried again, feebly. His arms were still crossed tightly across his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, as he feared what his hands might do if he dared set them loose. They'd take on a life of their own; havoc would ensue. "What do you think you are doing? You are a _student_."

"Yes," she agreed, her mouth moving against his skin. "But not _your_ student."

Well, _that_ was true enough. The girl was certainly right about _that_—

Then he sucked in a breath as, emboldened, her mouth made a slow, tentative circle around his face, touching his cheekbones, his forehead, his hairline, chin, his eyelids, light as air, strands of her still damp hair trailing sensuously behind. Her hands — which were _not_ cold, he noted with interest — moved up and rested on his shoulders, then, tentative, slid up the sides of his neck and cupped the skin beneath his jaw. He caught a glimpse of the pale skin of her wrist and the still-angry burn there, like a slash, but he wouldn't think about what that meant now, because her mouth continued to find different places to kiss.

The top of his head.

The tip of his nose.

The small cleft _below_ his nose.

The corner of his mouth.

The other corner, just to be fair.

He was trembling.

No one had ever kissed him like that, ever.

_No one_.

But then, because he was Snape, and because life was cruel—

"How do I know this is real?"

She stopped, considered. She took hold of one of his hands, wrenching it free from its death grip on his shirt, and placed it, palm down, over her heart, just below the swell of her breast. He could feel it there, her heart, below the skin and below the bone, a wild thing struggling to get free, it seemed, even as it kept her alive, kept her there with him.

"It feels real," she said, and she was breathless. "It feels real to me, it _has to be real, right_—_?_"

Without waiting for an answer, her rather inexperienced hands fumbled about his waist, and then down, down, while her mouth sought _his_ and—

"_Hermione_," he choked out finally, moving his hands at last and sliding them about her waist, beneath her sweater, along the impossibly smooth skin and over the impossibly horrid scars, lingering to lightly finger the injured spots, and her head dipped again, and her mouth found his and she kissed him in earnest — a frenzied clashing of lips, teeth, tongues — with an urgency that both frightened and delighted him.

She pulled away when she could no longer catch her breath, cupping his head in her hands, shaking with the exertion. He held her very tightly around the waist, fingers digging into her back and the room was filled with the sound of their ragged breathing.

"Now what?" he asked against her neck, panicked, terrified, joyous. "Now what do we do?"

...

She returned to school, is what she did, and he spent the interminable week between Christmas and the New Year swinging wildly between bouts of blind euphoria and blind panic.

Neither was doing his heart much good.

She came back, however, the day before he was scheduled to leave and they stood, stiff as soldiers, regarding one another warily from opposite sides of the room.

"You could…continue to write to me, if you so choose," he said. It was early January and thin light slanted in through the window. Hermione looked very pale and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

"Perhaps," she said. "Will you actually reply?"

"Perhaps," he said. "If you write something worth replying to." They both smirked at that.

"We won't need letters anyway," she remarked casually. "We'll be…_seeing_ one another, yes?"

And his heart did a slow, lazy cartwheel at the thought.

She took a step closer. "And…when you return?"

He exhaled through his nose. "Apparently you know where I live now."

She nodded and took another step. "Then I'll…come back."

Another step and another, until she reached him, leaned up and pressed her lips against his.

"I'll _miss_ you," she said, before she turned and left him to his books, his clothes, his thoughts, which swirled madly around two diverse and yet similar notions:

_I don't know what I'm doing._

And,

_What have I got myself into?_

_...  
_

"You have a package, Hermione," Ginny said in February and leaned over to watch her unwrap it.

Hermione _knew_ that handwriting, and pulled the wrapping away with trembling fingers and sat staring down at the contents, unable to utter a word.

"Well, _that's_ a bit rude," said Ginny. "Who on earth would send you a hairbrush?"

...

March and a mad snowstorm that rattled the school's windows and doors, its very foundation. The winds raged for days, snow blocking almost all light, transforming the school into a cave, a haven.

Students went into hibernation mode.

Nothing to do but sleep.

And dream.

...

And in April:

_Dear S,_

_The snow is melting._

_Spring is coming._

_I can feel it._

_H_

_...  
_

And the following week in April:

_Hermione,_

_I miss you, too._

_...  
_

May and grass, green beneath her feet, gentle breezes and the bluest skies imaginable, so blue they hurt her eyes.

"You're certainly getting a lot of letters this year," Ginny remarked casually. "Someone I should know about?" She cut her eyes sideways.

"Maybe," Hermione said as they walked. "Soon."

"It's too bad, you know," Ginny said, holding her vibrant hair back from her face as spring winds caught it, whipped it wildly. "I would have liked to have a sister."

June and a collection of postcards from Seville and Leipzig, of the Schloss Schönbrunn and the Uffizi Gallery.

She held them in her hands, those glossy-faced images of far-off places, slipping against her fingers, reading his descriptions again and again until every word was memorized. She sifted through them over and over, pictured him there, wandering _those_ streets, seeing _that_ site, pictured him thinking of her as he chose just the right one.

She held them close and smiled.

June.

It was almost time.

...

He was sliding books onto shelves when he heard the door click and swing open slowly. He froze, a copy of _Europe on a Budget_ clutched in his hand, unable to move or speak.

"Hello," he heard her say.

Her voice.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them she was there, in full view in the doorway, all June light and heat and a short-sleeved shirt, watching him hold the book.

"You came back," was all he could say.

She frowned at him, dropped her bag at her feet.

"Of course I did." Neither one moved. "School ended two days ago. We…talked about this." She stopped, studied him. "What? You didn't think…you thought I wouldn't come?"

Now that she was actually _here_, it seemed silly to voice it, to say it aloud, so he only shrugged, one shoulder, nonchalant. But he was paler than usual and his throat worked under his collar.

He shoved the book into its allotted space, let his hands drop to his sides.

Of _course_ he thought she wouldn't come. Silly girl.

This was his life he was talking about, after all.

She took a deep, rather unsteady breath. "Do…you not _want_ me here?"

_Oh, dear Merlin._

He was before her in an instant, pulling her roughly into his arms, feeling her warm and solid and real, his lips against her hair and her arms around him and she was laughing against his chest, laughing like she'd never stop.

...

And later—

_I knew a woman—_

He couldn't close his eyes, couldn't look away for fear of missing a single movement, a sigh, a shudder, a smile—

_Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:_

_I'm martyr to a motion not my own;_

It was fire and it was earth, it was water and air and something more, something lighter, than all of that, too—

_What's freedom for? To know eternity._

_I swear she cast a shadow white as stone._

It was passion and skin and tears and gasps and the unspeakable beauty of the long, trembling curve of her throat as she writhed beneath him, her hair tangling across the pillow, dark and light—

_But who would count eternity in days?_

_These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:_

It was her mouth on him, and her hands on him, and her lips forming the shape of his name, over and over and _over_—

_(I measure time by how a body sways.)_

He pushed his face desperately into the sweet hollow of her neck, felt the smooth ridge of her collarbone under his mouth, tasted the salt sheen of sweat, felt her hands moving, moving on his neck, his back, his ribs, and as he swayed against her, into her over and over and _over_ he thought—

_I want to stay here._

_I want to stay here _forever_._

_...  
_

_-30-_

_I Knew a Woman ~ Theodore Roethke_

_...  
_

A/N: Yes, for those of you who have asked, -30- means _done_. Sorry for any confusion: it's simply a lingering habit from my journalism days. I have no clue of its origin, but it signified the end of a press release, and I've carried it over into fanfiction. Thank-you to everyone who didn't give up on this story, and left such lovely, encouraging reviews. I know it was confusing at times — for me, as well! _heh_ — but I had so much fun writing it. And, I'm a sucker for happy endings, so. Onwards.


End file.
